


Wardrobe

by yin_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Warning: Coat is killed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3105038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yin_again/pseuds/yin_again
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unwelcome parcel arrives and kicks off a series of events including homeless people getting new outfits, the destruction of Sherlock's coat, evidence that Sherlock is a bit too attentive when it comes to John's trousers, the search for the Holy Grail of Sherlock fandom, and the unlawful use of Mycroft's credit card.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the Sherlock Kink Meme a billion ages ago.

When the box from Harry's shows up, John refuses to open it. Sherlock is able to leave it alone for exactly 22 minutes.  
  
"John, you have a parcel. Why are you not opening it?" He hopes he sounds casual.  
  
"Because I do not wish to open it, Sherlock." John doesn't look up from his newspaper, and his tone suggests that he's answering a very stupid question that has a very obvious answer.  
  
This reply displeases Sherlock. "Would you like for _me_ to open it?" Again, he attempts nonchalance.  
  
"No," John says, and that's that.  
  
~*~  
  
Ten minutes after John goes to bed, Sherlock opens the box. It's full of clothes. Nice clothes. Nice, John-sized clothes (off-the-peg, but still not bad), all neatly folded between sheets of tissue paper. The box holds three suits, half a dozen dress shirts, fourteen ties, three pairs of expensive jeans, three silk pullovers, a collection of soft cotton tee shirts, socks - casual and dress, silk boxer shorts, high-end boxer briefs, two pairs of beautiful Italian leather shoes, and a pair of very expensive trainers. At the very bottom there's another parcel, wrapped in brown paper. Sherlock unfurls the paper to find a long grey cashmere overcoat and three scarves. There's not a jumper in the lot.  
  
He wants to wake John up and make him model everything. It's amazing. _Clothes_. Normal, fashionable, _London-appropriate_ clothes. That John could wear. That John could wear and not look like some sort of country-farmer-come-to-visit. Okay, that's probably unkind. But _clothes!_  
  
"No," John says flatly from halfway down the stairs. "Get rid of it, I don't care how. Have it gone by the time I get home from the surgery tomorrow." He turns and goes back up the stairs. Sherlock can hear the slight unevenness in John's walk - the phantom limp's resurgence in the face of strong emotion.  
  
Sherlock reviews his clues. The expense of the clothes, the fact that they are all 2-3 years old, they came via Harry, not _from_ her, though - her taste runs more to trend than these classic pieces - and that John doesn't want anything to do with them.  
  
Sherlock clears a space for himself on the sofa amongst the clothes and steeples his fingers under his chin. When he wakes, the clothing is all packed neatly back into the box, and John has gone to work.  
  
Sherlock goes through his deductions: the box came from Harry, so it had been stored with her while John was in Afghanistan. The clothes are far outside everything Sherlock knows about John's "style", such as it is, so they were purchased by someone else. John doesn't want to have anything to do with the clothes, so they were purchased by someone John doesn't want to think about, so ex-lover.  
  
Ex-lover with expensive taste, considerable wealth, and an appreciation of quality workmanship. John would not have kept the clothes himself, so they were sent to Harry by the purchaser, not by John. Sherlock picks up his phone.  
  
 **Parcel arrived. John wants contents thrown away.** SH  
  
 **He's an idiot - you should see how good he looks in them.** Harry  
 **Also, since when do you text me?** Harry  
  
 **What is the ex-lover’s name?** SH  
  
There was a 90-second pause, then:  
  
 **David.** Harry  
 **Anything else will have to come from John. He’s already going to kill me for telling you that much.** Harry  
  
Hefting the box to his shoulder, Sherlock heads out. The members of his homeless network are going to be dressed rather more smartly than usual.

 

When John comes home, he looks around, then smiles at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he says.  
  
Sherlock waves a lazy hand. “Tea?”  
  
John drops his satchel and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. A few minutes later he delivers a mug to Sherlock and settles into his usual seat. “The old man who fakes being blind down the end of the road was wearing quite a nice greatcoat this evening,” he says mildly.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he sits up enough to drink his tea and turn on the television.  
  
Three hours later, when John takes the mugs to the kitchen, Sherlock calls out. “How long were you and David together?”  
  
He hears one of the mugs break in the sink. John speaks quietly, but Sherlock’s sharp hearing registers the words anyway. “God damn you, Harry.”  
  
John stalks to the stairs after grabbing his phone, and Sherlock subsides back onto the couch to think.  
  
~*~  
  
 **Thanks a lot.** Harry  
  
 **How long were they together?** SH

 

“Eighteen months,” Sherlock says, “He objected to your going to Afghanistan.” It’s three days later and they’re on their way to the Yard at Lestrade’s request.  
  
John sighs. “Ah, hell. Yes, eighteen months; no, he didn’t want me to go. He hated the way I dressed and bought all the gear that was in the box. I have not and will not contact him, and I don’t particularly want to discuss it anymore.”  
  
Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin for a long moment before folding them in his lap “So, your objection is to _those_ clothes.”  
  
John looks up. “What are you on about, Sherlock? Get it out of your system before we get to the crime scene.”  
  
“I found myself interested in seeing you in them. Or clothes like them.”  
  
John doesn’t answer, but Sherlock notes the faint flush that highlights John’s cheeks.  
  
~*~  
  
Later, John’s sitting on a kerb trying to unlace his boots. The soaked laces fight him all the way. He finally pries one boot off and sets it on the ground. He pulls off his sock and wrings it out, watching the water cascade to the ground. He drops it with a wet “plop” and starts working on the other boot.  
  
Sherlock is sitting next to him clutching the remains of his coat around his shoulders, feeling utterly shell-shocked. “Coat,” he says bleakly. And, yes, _coat_. The left sleeve is gone, and there’s a ragged hole where the - what John calls _swishy_ \- tails used to be. The entire coat, or what’s left of it, is heavy with mud, water, and whatever else is found in the Thames near Battersea.  
  
John’s other sock hits the ground. “Yeah,” he says, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s cuff. “I think it’s beyond saving.”  
  
Sherlock hangs his head. The coat is just a coat, he thinks. There are other coats. _That_ coat can be replaced, and easily. But… “Coat.”  
  
“Lestrade,” John says, raising his voice so that the Detective Inspector can hear him. “We need a shock blanket over here.”

 

Sherlock can’t leave the flat. He’s _depressed_. Not bored. Depressed. Mycroft sends over four different coats, each of them _not quite right_. Sherlock throws the first one out the window. The other three go down the stairs after John yells at him about the window.  
  
He’s on the couch, staring at the ceiling, when the world goes dark. John has tossed one of the coats – number three: arms 8 centimetres too short, _not_ waterproof, single-breasted, wrong, wrong, wrong – over him.  
  
“Get dressed,” John says. “Get dressed and put that coat on. We’re going out to seek the holy grail of overcoats.”  
  
Sherlock mumbles from under his wool tent.  
  
John lifts one side of the coat and peeks in. “If you get up, get dressed, and put on this coat, I’ll let you pick out something for me.” He drops the coat back down, then pulls it up again. “You have to pay, though, and I want a new jumper, too.”  
  
Sherlock ponders this. He can try to find a replacement coat - _coat_ \- and he gets to dress John? This has merit. Now, where did he leave Mycroft’s credit card?  
  
~*~  
  
“Jermyn Street. T.M. Lewin,” Sherlock tells the cabbie. He can’t stop fussing with the too-short sleeves of the coat. He refuses to think of it as _his_ , and it’s going right back down the stairs when they return to Baker Street.  
  
“T.M. Lewin?” John asks. “Is that where you get your suits?”  
  
Sherlock purses his lips. “Of course not. Spencer Hart’s a bit…”  
  
“High-fashion for me?”  
  
John doesn’t sound offended, but he’s exactly right. John would look ridiculous in Sherlock’s knife-sharp, closely-tailored suits. “Lewin will fit your style much better – their work is a bit more…classic.”  
  
John laughs. “Did it hurt your mouth to say that, Sherlock? Which part? ‘Classic’, or referring to the way I dress as a _style_?”  
  
“Do shut up, John,” Sherlock says, but he can’t help being amused. He was sure that John would be more uptight, so he’s happy to see that there may be some fun in this trip after all.  
  
Generally, Sherlock considers shopping boring. His tailor has his precise measurements and color preferences. Each season, a dozen suits and all of the furnishings show up, and the bill goes to Mycroft.  
  
Boredom takes a backseat on this trip. A well-dressed toady seats them in a comfortable corner and brings them tea. Soon, the fun begins.

 

Sherlock settles back into his armchair, crosses his legs and _watches_. John is clearly uncomfortable with being fussed over by the shop assistants, his doctor’s instinct and natural reticence making him want to _help_ rather than be catered to. By the second cup of tea, the sales associate (and a conscripted helper), start ferrying suits out to their alcove.  
  
“Single-breasted, I believe,” Sherlock says, and half the suits are discarded onto another chair. “Not black,” he adds, and another cascade of fine wool hits the chair. Sherlock can see John’s sly smile. For some reason, John likes it when Sherlock is arrogant, and Sherlock can deliver arrogance in spades.  
  
“John,” Sherlock rumbles. “What do you think?”  
  
“Oh, no,” John says, a laugh teasing at the edge of his voice. “This is your show. Consider me your mannequin for the duration.”  
  
Sherlock has to steeple his fingers under his nose to hide his reaction – mostly a sigh, but he can’t say that it isn’t at least partially a soft moan. Truly, if John was Sherlock’s mannequin…he cuts off that avenue of thought and returns his attention to the suits.  
  
He waves off a dove grey one, and two with too-obvious chalk stripes. He holds a short internal debate about a dark-green one, but sends it away when he catches a small expression of displeasure flit across John’s face for a second. Sherlock allows a charcoal three-button, a charcoal two-button, a charcoal two-button pinstripe, and a subtle charcoal herringbone two-button. He also includes a navy sharkskin and a navy 4-season.  
  
Then the show begins – John is swept onto the small platform in front of their chairs, and the shop assistant takes his measurements at high speed. John lets himself be dragged off to a fitting room; the young man, swamped by his armful of suits, follows.  
  
John comes out in the first navy suit, the unfinished hems trailing. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and a plain tie. Sherlock looks at him closely. The jacket pulls strangely across the tops of John’s shoulders, and Sherlock realizes that all of the wild haring about the streets of London has layered muscle onto John’s compact frame. The jacket is also slightly too small around the biceps. Last but not least, it is much too long.  
  
John shifts uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders under the fine wool. The shop assistant frowns. “Absolutely not,” he says, and eases the jacket down John’s arms and off.  
  
Sherlock swallows hard. The trousers are as right as the jacket was wrong. Their fit is close but not tight, and their lining makes them flow easily over John’s thighs – also the beneficiary of additional muscle – to his knees, past which they fall gently to the floor. It’s a softer line than Sherlock’s own trousers, which are closely fitted all the way down. The style is perfect for John.  
  
John is looking at him expectantly, and Sherlock makes a slight twirling gesture with his fingers. John turns around. Intellectually, Sherlock knows that muscle is muscle and it’s not all that surprising, but John’s ass is really astonishingly attractive, cradled lovingly by the navy trousers that emphasize the tight curve where buttock ends and strong thigh begins.  
  
The shop assistant is also staring, and Sherlock gives him a narrow-eyed look, which gets the man moving to fuss over the discarded jacket.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, and John turns around to face him. “Your jackets will have to be bespoke. Off-the-peg is insufficient for your needs.”  
  
John fiddles with his tie. “I guess that’s what comes from being short and stocky.” He runs his hand self-consciously over his flat belly.  
  
“Oh, no, sir,” the shop assistant starts to say, but Sherlock waves him off.  
  
“You’re being disingenuous, John. As a doctor, you can recognize a gain in muscle tissue and the accompanying changes to body shape. However, I will concede that you are short.”  
  
John mock-frowns. “We can’t all be stick figures like you,” he says.  
  
“Which is why I never buy off-the-peg,” Sherlock replies lightly. “Besides, since you moved in I have gained almost six and a half pounds. I may, perhaps, be getting fat. Like Mycroft.” He shudders theatrically.  
  
“It’s only because I make you eat an actual meal every three days or so, you maniac.” John runs his fingers along the waistband of the trousers, smoothing the tucked-in line of his shirt. “Another?” he says.  
  
“One of the greys, I think,” Sherlock says, and he watches John’s ass until the changing-room door closes.

 

None of the jackets, unsurprisingly, fit. All of the trousers, unsurprisingly, do. It comes down to colors. Despite John’s insistence that Sherlock choose, it’s incredibly easy to see that it’s the charcoal and navy suits that John likes.  
  
“Both,” Sherlock says imperiously, and raises a hand to forestall John’s protest. “I can’t decide,” he continues. “So both.”  
  
Before John can even speak, he’s swept back up to the platform and another man comes out armed with a measuring tape and a pincushion. The tailor starts measuring John carefully. Sherlock finds himself getting a bit agitated when the man measures John’s inseam. The tailor’s hands are in places where Sherlock would like to have _his_ hands, and it’s almost unbearable. He blames that agitation for the enormous error in judgment he makes next.  
  
The tailor asks John a perfectly normal question: “To which side do you dress?” and Sherlock says, “Left.”  
  
The tailor bends back to his work, John’s eyes go wide, and Sherlock studiously stares at some ties hung on a rack to one side. Bit. Not. Good. Sherlock is well-known for egregious breaches of etiquette, but even he knows that one should not have spent quite so much time staring at their flatmate’s crotch as to know which leg of his trousers that their flatmate routinely keeps his penis down.  
  
The tailor distracts John with questions regarding where the trousers should break, and Sherlock quietly slips from his seat and walks round a display of shirts, pretending to compare colors. This, he thinks, is the problem with making “friends” or “colleagues” or whatever they are. Letting people into his life – apparently – makes him actually _care_ what that person thinks of him. This was unanticipated.  
  
Obviously, he has overplayed his hand. He goes over the options in a split-second and comes up with only one solution: ignore the whole thing. He waves over one of the assistants and makes arrangements to have the coats made – the company doesn’t actually do bespoke tailoring, but money talks, and Mycroft’s credit card has quite a loud voice, indeed.  
  
While he’s at it, Sherlock chooses three shirts and ties, and finds a half-zip lambswool jumper in a blue that will bring out John’s eyes. He adds a Merino v-neck in light grey, and another in a charcoal grey that won’t show blood and dirt so much as the lighter ones – he’s just being practical. He pays for the whole lot and arranges delivery.  
  
By the time he’s done, John is coming toward him, back in his everyday gear and looking rather shell-shocked. He waves a small white card at Sherlock. “I have _fittings_ apparently,” he says.  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock says, straightening his jacket, brushing imaginary lint off the sleeve. “Shall we carry on?”  
  
John smiles at that. “Ready to seek the grail?”  
  
Sherlock can’t help smiling back.

 

“12-13 Conduit Street,” John tells the cabbie, and Sherlock frowns, thinking.  
  
After a moment, his eyes widen. “Belstaff?” he says. John nods, and he looks so pleased with himself that Sherlock is loathe to tell him that the Millford coat has been discontinued and that there aren’t any available. If there had been, Mycroft would surely have been able to find it.  
  
Sherlock stays quiet as they get out at Conduit Street in front of the Belstaff flagship store. The front windows show the newest collection, including the coat he’d tossed down the stairs. John’s going to be disappointed.  
  
John’s not acting like he’s going to be disappointed. John’s sweeping into the store with…maybe a touch of Sherlock’s own self-satisfied arrogance? John?  
  
An assistant in a smart suit approaches them, and John brushes him off. “Dr. John Watson for Ms. Carstairs,” he says. The assistant scuttles off, and John leads Sherlock further into the store.  
  
A petite woman in an impeccably cut cream-coloured suit glides up to them. The off-white of the suit and the pale pink of her blouse contrast perfectly with her raven-dark hair, and she gives them an indulgent smile.  
  
“Dr. Watson,” She says, shaking John’s hand. “It’s so lovely to meet you in person at last.” She turns to Sherlock and holds out her hand again. “Claire Carstairs,” she says. He returns the greeting, and she smiles widely at John. “Perfect,” she says. She claps her hands together once. “Shall I bring them forward,” she says, “or do you want to come back with me?”  
  
“The back is fine,” John says, and he lifts up once on his toes in a very discreet little bounce of happiness.  
  
They walk through the door of a beautifully-arranged stockroom, and Ms. Carstairs leads them to one side. “Your merchandise,” she says, making a sweeping gesture toward the three garment bags hanging on a hook on the wall.  
  
John smiles at Sherlock and repeats the gesture. “I give you,” he says dramatically, “the grail.”  
  
Sherlock knows what’s in there. He _knows_ it, even though it’s impossible. He hesitates.  
  
John’s smile gets even bigger. “Not impossible, Sherlock,” he says. “Just very, very improbable. Go on.”

 

Sherlock slowly unzips the bag. It’s…it’s… “A Millford,” he says breathlessly. “This doesn’t…there _aren’t_ any.” He touches the lapel of the coat - _his_ coat – reverently.  
  
“Incorrect,” Ms. Carstairs says. “There are three. One from Bucharest, one from Treviso, and this one, most likely the last in the world, from a retailer in America, of all places.”  
  
Sherlock strokes the sleeve of the coat. “How did you…I would have… _Mycroft_ would have…”  
  
Ms. Carstairs pats Sherlock’s arm. “Mr. Holmes,” she says. “We’ve been working on this project for months. Mostly myself and Dr. Watson’s assistant, of course, but I must say that the search was quite fun.”  
  
“Assistant?” Sherlock says distractedly. He’s fingering the lapels – the wool is perfect, the waterproof finish light on the surface. It’s his coat. And John – marvelous, wonderful _John_ who has done this amazing thing.  
  
He tears himself away from the coat to look at John. John’s grinning like a fool, and Sherlock knows that it’s at least partly because he’s managed to keep a secret from Sherlock, which is almost impossible. Or, as John said earlier, very, very improbable.  
  
And really, how much is a man supposed to take in this world before he breaks? Sherlock grabs John by the shoulders and presses him against the coats. He stares into John’s eyes for a long moment, watching intently. When John’s eyelids droop a little and he puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips, Sherlock knows that he’s been stupid and blind, and – worst of all - he’s _underestimated_ John.  
  
When their lips meet, it’s unexpectedly sweet. It’s been ages since Sherlock’s kissed anyone – he’s been hiding behind “married to his work” for years. He always liked kissing, and with his mouth on John’s, he finds that he still does. Apparently, John likes it, too. The kiss stays gentle and soft, and Sherlock only pulls away when he hears Ms. Carstairs’ soft, “Awwwwwww.”  
  
John clears his throat, and Sherlock steps back once he realizes he’s still got John pinned to the wall and halfway inside the garment bag. John steps forward, blushing.  
  
“So,” Ms. Carstairs says cheerfully. “Worth the effort, Dr. Watson?”  
  
John’s looking directly at Sherlock when he says, “He always is.”

 

Ensconced in a cab, Sherlock is wearing one of the coats and greedily clutching the other two garment bags to him, when a thought occurs. “John? How did you _pay_ for these?”  
  
“Didn’t,” John says. “Mycroft did.”  
  
“When? How?”  
  
John grins happily. “Via credit card, and right…about…now.” His phone rings as if on cue. John picks it up. “Yes, Mycroft?”  
  
He pauses for a moment, then his grin gets even wider. “Thank you,” he says. “On both counts.” He hangs up.  
  
Sherlock can’t remember _ever_ being so surprised by someone. He tries to get his thoughts in order and make a few deductions.  
  
“Your ‘assistant’ must be Sarah,” he says. That’s the only way John could have hidden the whole “hunt” from him, and, apparently, from _Mycroft_ , as unbelievable as _that_ is.  
  
John nods.  
  
“Ms. Carstairs said you’d been searching for _months_ \- why…?”  
  
Sherlock almost jumps when John’s strong fingers twine with his. “It was bound to happen,” John says gently. “We’re a bit rough on outerwear. I just wanted to be ready.”  
  
“But you let me suffer for _three whole days_ , John! What were you _thinking_?” Three days! John could have saved him three days of deep mourning! That was just cruel.  
  
John flushes. “I…erm…I forgot, actually. I called Sarah this morning to complain about you and she reminded me.”  
  
Feeling daring, Sherlock lifts up John’s hand and kisses the back of it softly.  
  
  
Sherlock directs the cabbie to his bank, where he rents a safe-deposit box big enough to hold the two extra coats without folding them. He knows John thinks he’s being crazy, but he’s just being prudent. Since he knows that these three are the last on the planet, he will take no shortcuts in protecting his “grail”.  
  
Back in the cab, he takes John’s hand. “You really are extraordinary – quite extraordinary – John.” He means every word.  
  
John just hums happily in response and holds Sherlock’s hand until they arrive at Baker Street.

 


End file.
